“Are you new here?” I ask, keeping my grip on him tight.
“Sort of. I’m an advanced studies student in botany.”
That explains a lot. His kind demeanor, his patience. He’s a spring.
“I just graduated from Western and jumped at the opportunity to study somewhere that experiences the full range of the seasons. I’ll be doing an independent study here for a year or two with my mentor.” Western School of Solar Magic is our sister school in California. Witches graduate at eighteen, so he’s just a year ahead of me.
I don’t say anything more and try not to focus on the embarrassment I feel at being on the back of someone I just met.
When I see my cabin, I push myself off Sang and hop the rest of the way. He doesn’t say anything and instead shoves the door open. I sit down on the edge of my bed.
“You need to get those cuts cleaned up. I’ll be right back.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I call after him, but he’s already out the door.
There’s a large crack in my window, and the roof is covered in branches and pine needles, but otherwise the cabin is exactly as I left it. Several minutes go by before Sang knocks on the door and pokes his head back in.
“You have a visitor,” he says.
Nox bounds into the cabin and launches himself onto the bed. He’s shaking, and his black fur stands on end. He looks both happy to see me and angry, as though this is somehow my fault.
I guess in a way, it is.
“Where did you find him?”
“Kevin was on his way here looking for you. He said there’s an all-school debrief at seven tonight.”
I take Nox’s bowl to the sink and fill it with water. I scratch his head and thank the Sun he’s safe.
Sang is carrying towels, a big bowl of ice, plastic bags, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He sets everything down on the bed next to the bundle of yarrow leaves.
“No,” I say. “I just want to rest for a while.”
“You’re covered in cuts, and some are pretty deep. You don’t want them to get infected.”
I sigh. “Let me change first.”
“I’ll be right outside.” Sang gives Nox a quick pet and steps out the door, closing it behind him.
I peel off my shirt and wince when the fabric moves over my forehead. It comes away bloody, and I put it in the hamper before throwing on my Eastern sweats and a clean T-shirt.
“Okay,” I say, opening the door. “I’m done.”
“Sit,” he says, motioning to the bed. I do as I’m told, too tired to argue. Sang pulls over my desk chair and faces me. The cabin feels small with another person in it, the wooden walls and low ceiling making it seem tighter than it is. The floor creaks when Sang leans toward me. He opens the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and pours some on a towel.
“I can do it myself,” I say.
“You can’t see all your cuts.”
“I’ll stand in front of the mirror.”
“On your ankle the size of a tree trunk?”
I sigh. He’s right. I don’t want to stand up. He must sense my defeat because he asks, “Ready?”
I nod. He places the towel on my forehead, and I cringe as it bubbles and stings.
“You okay?”
“Great.” I keep my eyes closed. Sang goes over the gash on my forehead several times, then moves to the cuts below my collarbone.
“So, why do you live here instead of one of the houses?”
I’m not ready for the question, and I take in a sharp breath. Sang must think I’m reacting to the stinging, though, and he mouths an apology.
“I used to live in the houses.” Sang waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t say anything else. I’m thankful when he doesn’t push.
“All done,” he says, setting the towel down. “Do you have a coffee mug somewhere?”
I point to my desk. “You can take the pens out of it.”
Sang takes the pile of yarrow to the desk and dumps a small amount of water over the green leaves, then grinds them down with the bottom of the mug. Then he scoops the grounds inside and adds more water until it gets thick. It smells fresh and spicy, masking the mustiness of the cabin.
The edge of Sang’s hand is stained with green and pink and brown, and I want to ask what it’s from, but I stay quiet.
“Head back,” he says. I tilt my chin to the ceiling, and he applies the yarrow paste to the gash on my forehead, then puts a bandage over the top. “That’ll help stop the bleeding,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“Now, let’s get that leg propped up.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.” The words come out laced with annoyance, but I genuinely want to know.
“Because I’m a decent human being who just watched you try to save this school from a tornado?”
I don’t respond. I raise my legs onto the bed, and Sang moves a pillow under my ankle. He pulls my pant leg up and winces.
“That’s one hell of a bruise,” he says.
He puts some ice in a plastic bag, then sets it on my ankle. “You may want to put some crushed lavender on there for the swelling.”
“Thanks.”
Sang starts cleaning up his supplies, but I stop him. “Not so fast,” I say.
“What?”
“I’m not the only one who got hurt.” I don’t know why I say it, but he was nice enough to help me. I should do the same. “Sit,” I say, motioning to the chair.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Arbors fall on me all the time.”
“Is that so?”
Sang nods. “I hardly notice when it happens.”
“Your eye is swelling shut,” I point out.
He sits.
I dump a bunch of ice into the remaining plastic bag and wrap it in a towel. I hand it to him, and he puts it against his swollen eye.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
“I’m fine.” I know he’s asking about the storm, but
